


Modest in Temper

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, Original Character-centric, Pre-Game(s), Self-Coercion, mentions of past M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mother wants him to want this.<br/>Mother knew she would want this, and gave her blessing. That’s why there are no servants breaking down the door, and that’s why she bought him that beautiful halla leather jerkin and the ring velvet sash that brings out his eyes so nicely."</p><p>There is nothing Raymond Trevelyan wouldn't do to please Mother. Modest in temper; bold in deed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modest in Temper

**Author's Note:**

> So... this was depressing as heck to write. I wanted to write how Raymond loses his virginity, but honestly... this ended up being much worse than I thought it would.  
> Think of an un-romanced Alistair going into the Dark Ritual.  
> Yeah.  
> I have no excuse.

It’s... awkward. He had expected fire, an inferno of passion burning through his veins, heady sweetness driving him mad with desire. He had expected it to be just like in those books, when Angélique stepped up to him and his arms locked around her, but it’s just... awkward, and he wills himself to close his eyes as her mouth slants over his.  
Her tongue isn’t magical, it’s not delicious or intoxicating; it reminds him of a heavy, wet slug, writhing around in his mouth as if it were in agony. Tastes like anise and sweetened wine, and he decides that he doesn’t care for either.

The waxy oil she used to tint her lips the red of poppies is now spreading on his mouth as well, as if marking him, claiming him as hers. Her scent -normally pleasant, floral, but now intense to the point of being suffocating- worms itself into his nose and it’s so strong, so pungent, that he has to stop himself from grimacing.

When she draws back, he fights the urge to wipe the thick, wet coating of saliva off his lips with the back of his hand. She’s smiling, pleased, and caresses his cheek, her fingers soft and delicate as they hover over his pleasingly cut features. He must have a dazed look in his eyes, because she laughs quietly- the sound, like a symphony under a clumsy conductor’s command, halting and cacophonous- and leans back in for another peck. His back stiffens with effort to not draw away.

“Oh, my dear Raymond, you are so shy.” Angélique giggles, and he forces a slightly pained smile as she reaches up and rubs away the red stains her lips left on his face.

“You bring it out in me.”

The forced coyness of the remark elicits another quiet laugh from her. The sound bouncing around in her shakes her softly, her shoulders exposed by her blush pink gown -her skin is bone-white, like a fresh sheet of parchment and feels about as dry as well- bounce up and down, in tune with the rivulets of delight.

Lit only by the lights seeping out under the balcony door and the hundreds of tiny, magical fairy lights his mother had had placed in the garden, she looks even paler than she is. Her pretty face is almost ghostly, and the sharp shadows accentuate the slightly sunken in cheeks, her blush hidden by the thick coating of powders; the smeared redness of her lips reminds him of a deep, bloody gash, a weeping wound slashing her face in two. He looks away, but her palm laid across his cheek forces him to turn his gaze back. The soft murmur of the celebrations just a few steps away grounds him, _just play along_.

“This party is such a bore.” she whispers lowly- an attempt at seduction, a girl playing at womanhood. “How about we... sneak away? Just you and me?”

“I... would love that.” he lies with a pleasant smile, but his insides are screaming. He makes sure to keep his voice low and Angélique giggles again, _does this woman ever stop laughing_? “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I had... a few ideas.”

Her fingers trail up the buttons of his exquisite jerkin- the finest halla leather one can get for gold, Mother had it imported from the Dales precisely for tonight- and he feels his stomach quiver, revulsion feels almost the same as arousal if you think about it. He tries to peel her off and step out of her embrace, but her arms coil around his neck; her touch cold and bland like day old oatmeal, and his waist is still, rigid.

“Mother might--”

“Your dear mother will not need us for the rest of the night.” she interrupts with a dismissive wave of her hand and a coquettish smirk. “How about you show me around the chateau?”

* * *

He clings desperately to the memory of that closet as her fingers dig into his shoulders, and a sharp pain jolts down his spine. If he squeezes his eyes shut, if he concentrates hard enough, he can even remember the taste of the other boy’s hitched breaths, the wicked flits of his tongue, the hard shaft gliding in his palm, the feel of his skin, like expensive velvet. He smelled like fire and sweat, like the smithy, not a bouquet of dying flowers, wilting away in his arms. His moans were coarse and low and arousing, and not at all reminiscent of the whining of a tiny dog. His hands, large and hard, pawing at every inch of him they could reach, rough and almost violent as need blinded them both...

Her skirt is hitched up at the base of her thighs as they wrap around his waist, and her hands drag across the sculpted planes of his chest, the doublet pushed off his shoulders, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch. The slick heat feels nice, but her voice ringing in his ears, his name profaned by her tongue, it all feels wrong.

_Mother wants him to want this._

Mother knew she would want this, and gave them her blessing. That’s why there are no servants breaking down the door, and that’s why she bought him that beautiful halla leather jerkin and the ring velvet sash that brings out his eyes so nicely. Raymond swallows back the bile raising in his throat.

She throws her head back against the pillow and lets out a hellish, screeching noise- the shriek of a dying banshee, as he quietly spends himself inside her.

He tucks himself back into his breeches, and trembling fingers start working at the millions of buttons keeping his lapels closed and torso hidden. He needs a bath, but he feels he will never be clean again, not if he scrubs himself red everywhere she had ever touched him. He’s furling the sash around his narrow waist, sitting on the edge of the bed when she speaks.

“Leaving already? My love, you are too cruel.”

He looks back over his shoulder and flashes a well-practiced, charming smile.

“My dear, as much as it pains me to leave your side, I believe Mother would send a search party for us if I were out of her sight for long.”

“Mmh, good thinking.”

Angélique stretches her back like a content feline after having consumed her prey, the mounds of her breasts almost disappear with the arch of her back, the lace trimmings of her chemise almost the same shade as her skin.

“Do make haste, darling.” she adds with a lazy smile. He notes the kohl around her eyes seeping into the crinkles as her eyes narrow.

“I wouldn’t linger for the world. Get rest, Angélique- does your dear Father intend to stay the night?”

“No.” she turns over, and crawls onto her knees, draping her arms over his shoulders. He thanks the Maker she can’t feel him twitch. “But I still wanted to do this before we would leave. I love you, Raymond.”

Her voice is sincere, and he almost feels like crying, so he twists himself around, and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap and kissing her so he doesn’t have to speak, to say it back. A brief, perfunctory kiss, a duty done.

“I’ll be back soon.” he breathes, and lays her back down in the white linens, gentle. “Bring you a glass of water.”

“See if they have any more of those little cakes left. The _Misère Exquise_ is divine this evening.”

“Of course, darling.”

* * *

He doesn’t look back as he slides the door shut behind himself, and he throws his back against the hard wood, squeezing the balls of his palms over his eyes, as if trying to push them back into his skull. He did it. He didn’t say it back, but she said it, and he kissed her. Passing one of the flower pots, he spat onto the earth. Mother smiles when she sees him, a brilliant smile, one she never gives him when they are without company.

“My dear son, where ever have you been? Where is that darling Angélique?”

“She is resting, Mother. She said all the dancing had tired her out, so I escorted her to the sitting room.” Raymond smiles back, even he’s shocked at how easily the lie comes, and from the narrowing of his mother’s eyes, he can tell she knows the truth.

“Wonderful.” she nods finally, and gestures him closer “Come, my boy, I would like you to meet Lord Otranto of Antiva. He said he’s interested in your skill with the sword.”

“Truly? You flatter me, Lord Otranto.”

_Just play along. Just keep the mask. This isn’t Orlais, but the Game does not respect borders._

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com) too  
> I hardly do anything worth mentioning but hey I'm told I'm kinda funny sometimes


End file.
